I've been wanting to get back into this nonsense for a couple of weeks now. The problem is I don't know how to begin. It's not that I don't have anything to say, I'm just shy about it. So maybe I won't advertise.

I don't feel like there's much going on. I just came back from New Orleans a week ago. Thanksgiving is coming up very soon. But I've never written much about daily life unless I can make it at least seem amusing. Like a year ago when I was still new at my job and thought about lying on the floor of my office every afternoon. A lot has changed in a year. In that time I have toyed with talking to strangers on the interweb which proved to be a failure on almost every front with one, maybe two, meaningful exceptions.

In my experimentation I learned that people are just fucking weird. They're even weirder when they think they have the "protection" of the webz. Whereas I can just be "bleh!" and spew anything personal without care (a lesson hard-learned and hard-earned), other people are strangely closed off and impersonal but more than ecstatic to share their inane opinions. Or pictures of their cocks. But I want to know people, not opinions and not (particularly) the pictures and stories of the women they've fucked with the aforementioned cock. I wanted to know why you fucked them, what drives this compulsion to fuck them. But that's too real.  

And I think it's precisely because of my history, my past, that I want openness instead of secrets and mystery, light instead of darkness. Maybe it's because I like personalities more than opinions. What are your thoughts, your dreams, your fears, your fantasies? Your history? I dare you to shock me, surprise me. Tell me your story. Because we all have stories and they are usually full of disappointment and anger and hurt and betrayal. Because we are human. But because we are also barely removed from animals.

Your darkest secret, your darkest thought, isn't that dark, I swear. I know what it's like to want to hurt and be hurt and abuse and kill and destroy. (And to be someone else.) I know what it's like to try and one-up other people with tales of suicidality. And I also know about the boring aftermath. Of being locked up together playing card games and footsie under the table. Because it's truly rare to want to actually be dead. Self-preservation is a bitch of an instinct.

Oh, but what is this if not an opinion piece?

Ay(e), there's the rub.